Suburbia
by FlashFiction
Summary: Welcome to the 72nd Annual Hunger Games. This year promises to be a good one, with strong tributes, fierce competition and an arena that will force contestants to face up with their past, in more ways than one. So sit back, relax and, most importantly, Happy Hunger Games. May the odds be ever in your favour.
1. Chapter 1: Fynn

**Author's Note: **This will be my first Hunger Games fanfic (yay) so I hope you enjoy :) I don't own The Hunger Games, obviously, only my original characters and plot line etc.

For Mirabelle.

Chapter One: Fynn

The coat hanger sways gently, its motion coming from the swing of the open closet door. A blazer, deep navy blue with grey edging, hangs off the metal skeleton, recently ironed, smooth and crisp. I reach up and pull it down, twisting my arms to slip it over my shoulders and around my torso, my fingers clasp the cuffs of my shirt to stop it bunching. Flattening down the collar and lapel, I glance up and observe the figure who stares back, cold blue eyes moving as mine do. She is not overly unpleasing, in fact she might be pretty if it wasn't for the mouth that never smiles. Her skin is pale, made more so by the thick make-up that rings her eyes. Waves of black hair are tied back in a bun, painstakingly pinned off her forehead. She is tall and skinny, perhaps too skinny, the sleeves of the blazer about an inch away from her wrists and yet it hangs around her middle. The shirt and trousers fit better, but they are not made for someone of her proportions. I sigh. She sighs. She will do. I will do.

I shut the closet and walk from my room into the hallway. It's not like it matters too much how I look right now anyway; everyone will be in academy uniform for the pre-reaping selections, a uniform not created to flatter the human form. It is to show loyalty, dedication and unity, even if that means it doesn't fit. I just have to be tidy. I straighten my shirt collar and walk into the kitchen. My grandmother is cutting vegetables on the bench, the rhythmic sound of the knife against the chopping board drifting out to greet me as I walk through the doorway. Her greying-brown hair hangs over her forehead as she leans forward, concentrating on her work. She doesn't see me come in, so I give a small cough and her face jerks upwards.

"So, how do I look?" I ask, spreading out my arms like a mock fashion model.

She rolls her shoulders backwards, raising herself to her full height. People say I inherited her height. And her eyes; cold and clear, they move up and down, appraising every inch of me. Most would falter under her gaze, but I don't. She can be blunt, but she is honest and fair and I know she'll say if something is wrong.

"You look like your mother." she says finally, going back to her slicing.

Given the icy relationship between my grandmother and her daughter-in-law, I'm not going to take that as a compliment.

"What," I say teasingly, "I look like a self-important, pretentious, hypocrite?"

"I was going to go with bureaucratic clone," she replies, a smirk on her lips, "but don't talk about your mother like that."

"Your words, not mine." I shoot back.

She smiles a little, brushing a wavy strand of hair behind her ears. Though the corners of her lips turn up, I can see her brow is furrowed. Her half-hearted effort to be happy doesn't impress me and I call her up on it.

"Gran, what's the matter?" I say gently, sliding onto a bar stool that's directly in front of bench.

"Nothing, sweetheart," she coos, unconvincingly, "why would something be wrong?"

"You've been cutting the same carrot for about ten minutes." I point out.

Giving an exasperated sigh, Gran pushes the orange cubes into a pile on the side of her board and turns her massacring attentions to a zucchini. I fold my arms on the counter top and rest my chin on them. I hate seeing her so stressed.

"Are you coming today?" I ask, knowing the answer before she even gives it.

There is no way my Grandmother would ever come to a pre-reaping ceremony. She only goes to actual thing because it's law. And, just as I expected, she shakes her head.

"I've got things to do, Fynn." she says quietly.

_Things to do_. A poor excuse, if ever there was one. I know she hates the Hunger Games. She doesn't understand what an honor it is to be picked to represent your district, she of all people. Both her sons, my father and uncle, were tributes only eighteen or nineteen years ago. My father was a victor. Before he died, he was hailed like a God in District 2. It is my plan to be the same.

"This is my year, Gran." I exclaim, sitting up straight. "I've been working so hard and everyone says they're sure to pick me as the premier tribute."

"And if they don't pick you?"

"Then I'll challenge whoever they do and volunteer anyway."

I've trained all my life to compete in the Hunger Games. No one's opinion will change my mind. I think Gran knows this; she just mumbles and starts to wash up.

"Cynthia is coming for dinner." Gran says, changing the subject. "She said she'll probably be at the ceremony, but probably won't get to see you until after."

"Fine." I say. "Good."

Cynthia is my mother; Cynthia Scott-Castairs, second in charge to the mayor of District 2, mother of Fynn Castairs, daughter-in-law of Addison Castairs, widow of Alexander Castairs. And she's quick to remind everyone of all of those facts. Marrying a tribute, in her eyes, is one of life's greatest achievements, something she did at the tender age of eighteen. I came a year later, a daughter to follow in the footsteps of her father, Cynthia's ultimate masterpiece. She enrolled me in the Tribute Academy when I was five, a year after my father had died. I stayed with Gran, while she lived in her apartment closer to the city. I didn't often see her, but she was a force of nature and I remembered everything she'd ever told me. When she did visit, it had to be a special occasion, a fact that affirmed my belief that today was an important day.

"I should go now." I say, standing up and brushing the front of my blazer.

Gran doesn't reply, clearly cleaning away her feelings; personally I feel like six minutes scrubbing one knife is overkill. I bid her goodbye and leave the house, walking out on to the pavement. The graphite-grey colour scheme of District 2 hits me like the stone that inspires it; row after row of houses and buildings, all in the same monotone. Blue sky rises up above the cityscape, a sapphire sea washing over a dull river bed. I start walking down the street, taking my usual route to the academy. I find a weight filling my stomach and I begin to think about the situation I'm entering.

It is custom, in District 2, for the academy to hold a ceremony before the reaping. During this, the top male and female tribute will be chosen. They will be the first to volunteer at the reaping, everyone will know that they are the ones to beat. Once the premier tributes have volunteered, others who want to try can challenge them directly. Few do; premier tributes are chosen for a reason.

At seventeen, I am a year younger than the premier tributes usually are. But I come from Career Tribute royalty and that seems to make a difference. I have been training hard and that has paid off. There is a slight chance that having a mother so close to the mayor has helped me on my way, but I like to think that most of my success is down to my own accomplishments and not any outside influence. I am the favourite. Unless someone challenges me, I will be competing in the 72nd Annual Hunger Games, representing District 2.

I come to the Academy; a large set of buildings, united by the towering, grey columns that stretch from the ground up to the roof. I start up the steps, perfecting my champion's walk. I pause before the doors, fixing my hair and checking my uniform. Time to make my entrance.

The wooden doors are heavier than they appear, but I'm used to that, having come here everyday for the last twelve years. I push them open and walk into the academy atrium, sunlight streaming through the high, glass ceiling. It has been set up for the occasion; a wooden stage has been constructed near the back doors, a lectern on top, waiting for the head trainer to read off the names of the chosen ones. The walls are lined with silver and blue streamers, the academy colours. Tables are set up at the sides of the hall, tall flutes of peachy coloured liquid sitting in rows. It is the event of the season and the District 2 Tribute Academy has pulled out all the stops.

Heads turn as I enter and whispering starts. I try to ignore it, going straight to the drink tables. I pick up a glass and take a sip. It's fizzy and a little bitter. I let the flavour settle on my tongue and then scull the rest; it's not my favourite taste in the world. Replacing the glass, I hear an excited voice behind me.

"You know what they're talking about, don't you?"

I spin around and give something that barely qualifies as a smile. But the girl knows what I mean.

"Of course, Daisy." I reply to her question, striding over to stand beside her, my arms crossed.

Daisy Mae Pennant grins in an endearing, if slightly stupid, way. Her chestnut-brown hair is curled and it bounces around just above her shoulders. Her big, green eyes glisten in her round face. Daisy Mae is about a foot shorter than I am and she follows me around like a faithful puppy. We are not friends, not exactly, but we are allies. She was not made to be a tribute; her parents paid a lot for her to attend the academy but she doesn't really excel in any of the coursework. Her enthusiasm, however, is unrivaled, and she is clearly excited for me.

"You're a cert, Fynn." Daisy Mae says, bouncing on the balls of her toes. "Everyone thinks so."

I know it, but I don't say so. Many think I'm arrogant and I don't need to encourage the belief. I scan the crowd of people, huddled in groups, chatting, laughing, buzzing with excitement. Not everyone looks entirely happy to see me though.

"Do you think anyone will challenge?" Daisy Mae asks, as if sensing my thoughts.

I shake my head. Challenges don't often happen. Trainee tributes that aren't chosen have essentially wasted their lives and of course they'd be angry. But usually even they realize that the premier tributes have the best chance of winning the games. The system is neat, better than the barbaric mess that they call administration in District 1. Apparently, they have brawls during the reaping, though these aren't televised.

Two men walk past. One is the head trainer, Corrigan Hackney, a tall, overly muscular man in his fifties. The other is one I know only by sight and name; Flick Donavan, District 2 victor. He has black hair, a well groomed beard and brooding, dark grey eyes. He must be one of the mentors for this year.

"Castairs." Hackney says by way of greeting.

"Sir." I reply.

"You'll know Flick Donovan." he continues. "Flick, this is Fynn Castairs, related, of course, to the Castairs Brothers. She is one of the candidates for premier tribute."

"Of course." Flick says, his voice slow and calculated. "54th and 53rd Games, wasn't it? I imagine your father would be very proud."

"I'm sure he would be." I say.

Hackney mumbles a gruff goodbye and heads over to the stage. As he climbs the steps, the crowd falls into a hush; the choices are about to be revealed.


	2. Chapter 2: The Premier

Chapter Two: The Premier

Hackney stands behind the lectern, shuffling some notes with his meaty hands. Behind him, sitting on blue plastic chairs, are Flick Donavan, the mayor and, next to him, dressed in a steel coloured skirt suit, is Cynthia Scott-Castairs. Her hair is like mine and she has the black locks swept up in a mass of coils on top of her head. Her eyes are burgundy-brown, sharp and clever. She sits with a rigid back, her knees together, hands clasped, staring at the proceedings with an expression of almost patronizing boredom. It's all an act; inside she'll be praying that my name is called to be the first to volunteer. It is an honour that she's dreamed of for me ever since I was a baby. I stand to attention and look interested, in case she should glance in my direction.

Hackney clears his throat and beams out at the crowd.

"Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentlemen, Family and Friends, Trainers and Trainees, Citizens of District 2."

At that short introduction, the crowd bursts out into applause. I clap along gingerly. If he gets interrupted at the end of every sentence, we could all be in for a very long afternoon.

"Welcome to the pre-reaping ceremony for the 72nd Annual Hunger Games!" he yells, his booming voice intensified by the microphone.

Again, there is applause. I look up at stage and see my mother, smiling. However, I can tell by the way her mouth is pursed that she has little patience for the crowd. The only objective, for both of us, is have my name read out.

"The trainee tributes have worked extremely hard this year," Hackney continues, "but, as we all know, only two can have the honour of representing our district."

All the air seems to leave the room, as those gathered lean in a little closer to hear what he has to say.

"One young man and one young woman will be chosen today as premier tributes, those with the first opportunity to volunteer at the reaping. That's what we're here for, so let's get to it! The female premier is-"

There's that moment, isn't there, that moment when you're convinced that everything will fall apart underneath you. I am the favourite, but my mind begins to question everything I know. What if I'm not chosen? What if they pick someone else? Nothing is certain and perhaps I will not get selected. What happens then? What do I do with myself? My heart pounds a firm tattoo against my chest, every breath I take is shallow and laboured. Nerves shot through my arms, down into my legs and my entire body tingles. This is it. I can not lose.

"- Fynn Castairs."

And I don't. I was a cert, as Daisy Mae had said, and my position has just been secured. Polite applause breaks out. A few people cheer and many are smiling. I nod at those around me, attempting not to look smug. Then I turn and bow to Corrigan Hackney, hoping that this one movement can convey all the gratitude I feel for his decision. If he understands, then he doesn't let it show, continuing on with the presentation.

"And the male premier is Kalin Whitehail."

I join everyone else in clapping, looking over at the well-built, blonde haired boy who has just been named the top District 2 male competitor. I know Kalin from training. He's strong, fast and relatively tolerable as people go. It's not surprising that he was picked. But he seems surprised, extremely surprised. His face is white and his eyes stare ahead blankly. He doesn't acknowledge the cheers from his father or the whistles from his academy friends; it's like he's not even aware of what's happening. The shock sinks in and he manages a tiny smile.

"Congratulations." Hackney finishes up. "We'll see you all at the reaping."

Just as she predicted, my mother leaves before I can talk to her. It doesn't matter, because it's not as if I'm short of people who want to speak to me. I'm bombarded with those wanting to shake my hand, wanting profess their faith in me or give their congratulations. And I beam and smile at every one. I am special, they feel honoured by my attention. I wonder, is this how my father felt before he volunteered? My uncle did not volunteer, but did he too feel the glory of having an entire district behind him? Of being "the One"? Another person grasps my hand and I feel like gold. I was made to do this.

I try to speak to Kalin, but he leaves quickly with his family, his head looking down at the floor. I hear his father saying proudly, "what'd I tell you? Failed hunting and you're still the best in the district!"

The remark catches me off guard for two reasons. The first is the fact that Kalin failed hunting. I've seen him hunt and he does not fail. He senses any kind of movement and he rarely misses. But secondly, and for me more importantly, if Kalin knows he failed hunting, then he has his academy progress report. If those have been sent out, then it's no wonder my mother rushed away; although it would be addressed to me, she would have no qualms about tearing it open and pouring over my results. With a new pressure hanging over me, I head back home.

My mother practically screams with joy when I walk into the kitchen. She is holding a piece of parchment that I know will have my academy marks scrawled all over it. Gran is standing at the bench, half watching me, half watching a pot of soup that boils away on a stove top. As far as I can tell, she hasn't moved since I last saw her. Cynthia runs over to me, her head barely reaching my chin, and pulls me into a crushing hug, before planting a kiss on both cheeks.

"My little girl." she squeals. "I'm so, so proud!"

I smile, more from amusement than gratitude; it has been a long time since I was her "little girl". Cynthia continues to chatter on to no one in particular, voicing her thoughts about the ceremony, the other academy tributes and about anything she can think of. I answer when necessary, nodding politely and making noises that seem to signal consent. Gran says nothing, perhaps not even listening.

"And your academy results are so good!" Cynthia says, finally getting to what I know she's been wanting to talk about. "Do you know how many classes you were top in? Five! Hunting, Hand to Hand Combat, Weaponry, Fitness and Problem Solving. And second in Knot Tying!"

"You came seventeenth in Mentality." Gran says.

I meet Gran's eyes and her look says clearly "what is that about?"

"Oh, Addison, you always focus on the negatives!" Cynthia replies.

And she twitters on.


	3. Chapter 3: Cold Coffee

Chapter 3: Cold Coffee

The days pass quickly and soon it is the morning of the reaping. As usual, I wake early and go for a run. The streets around my house are dead, all the inhabitants still sleeping. In the distance, small lights dance around in the early morning shadows, a sure sign that the quarry workers are beginning their day. I wonder about how long they will work for before they return home to prepare for the reaping. I have never been out to the quarries; both Cynthia and Gran forbid it, about the only thing they can agree on. My father died at the quarries. He wasn't a worker, not by a long shot. His position in the District 2 government meant that part of his work was to inspect the safety of the quarries. There was a new tunnel that had been built and some of the procedures had been rushed; it collapsed, killing four people, one of whom was my father. He had only been twenty-two and, it always seemed to me, like such unfitting death. This was a man who had survived the Hunger Games Arena, who had killed to live, who brought glory and honour to his district. And he was finally defeated by a cascade of rocks. Only four at the time, my memories of him are limited. There are photos of him around Gran's house, so that is how I know his face. He was an identical twin, both him and my uncle having dark brown hair and bright blue eyes. He was the more outgoing one; in every single picture he wears a grin that stretches across his face. My mother says that everyone who knew him fell in love, whether it was with his looks or personality. My grandmother never speaks about him, or my uncle. Both are dead and perhaps talking of ghosts brings back too many memories.

I take my time running. It gives me time to think and prepare for the day ahead. Of course, the only thing going through my mind at this moment is the reaping. I keep playing over how I want it to go, how I want to say those words when the time comes. It will be my moment, my chance to make a first impression, my time to be remembered. The whole experience doesn't seem real.

I finish my exercise and go home to bathe. My mother will come around soon. She will be sitting in one of the boxes at the reaping, like all the government members do, but she wanted to see me on my "big day" and wish me luck. And she'll want to dress me. She'll want to make sure that the daughter of Cynthia Scott-Castairs will be looking her best. I just finish bathing when she arrives. I slip into a dressing gown and sit on the bed, while she lays out the choices she has made for me. I shall be wearing a dress made of grey linen, "sensible and smart, yet elegant" to borrow Cynthia's words. On my feet are grey leather lace-ups, teamed with white ankle socks. My hair is tied back in a single braid, that snakes down my back. The colour scheme, so I am told, is to reflect the special characteristics of my district, but I find the straight grey to be boring and the overall look rather childish. However, my mother says it will work and she has never steered me wrong before.

Gran is sitting at the table, staring blankly into a cup of coffee. Her hair, usually down, is done in a bun and it makes her look older, exaggerating the curve of her cheekbones. She is not that old, she can't be, but now I can see lines that I have never noticed before. The clicking of my shoes startles her from her thoughts. I stand in front of her, as I did before selections, and wait for inspection.

"So?" I say, surprised at the shake in my voice.

Gran pushes her cup away and leans back in her chair, folding her arms. Her expression is stoney and she avoids my gaze, apparently paying close attention to my socks. It is a long time before she speaks.

"You look young." she whispers softly. "Too young for what you are about to do."

"Younger people than me have volunteered." I reply, wishing to instill some confidence in her.

"And younger people than you have died."

I know what she's trying to do and it won't work.

"I don't want to have this conversation now." I say. "I will be volunteering today."

"Fine." Gran says. "Do what you want. You know how I feel. I have to get changed."

She stands up and goes to the doorway. I hear footsteps going up the stairs and can tell that she's running. I let out a sigh. This was not how I wanted today to go. I pick up the abandoned cup and take it to the sink. As I pour it out, a droplet splashes on to my hand; the liquid is stone cold.

The town square is set up for the reaping, the familiar District 2 emblem hanging beside the one of the Capitol. The large, granite steps that lead up to the Justice Building have been set up like a stage; a microphone stands in the middle, a row of chairs lean against the wall and, towards the left, are two glass balls. Inside them are all the names of the eligible district children, one of them mine. I am in the middle of a crowd; girls and boys making their way to the sign in. Stands of seats have been set up, so those not competing can see. At the top of the stands are balconies, where the most important people sit. I look around for my mother, but I can't see her.

I join the back of a line, shuffling forward towards the Peacekeepers. Whispers fly around, as people notice me; they'll know I am the premier. I look for Kalin, finding him already standing in the roped off area. I raise the corner of my mouth in a knowing smile. In only a matter of minutes, we will be volunteering and the journey will begin.

With my finger pricked and my presence confirmed, I take my place with the other seventeen year old girls and the reaping begins. The officials take the stage and sit down. The last person to walk on stands out from the crowd; she is tiny, not just short but extremely skinny. Her hair is blonde, bleach blonde, and styled in a massive bow, the folds sticking out like animal ears. Her fringe, cut asymmetrically, is dyed tangerine orange to match the dress she wears, gold buttons down a fitted torso, layers of chiffon down to her knees. Her lips are also painted orange and she beams in true Capitol style. Clio Bridge is the woman with the responsibility of not only acting as Escort to the District 2 tributes, but also drawing the names.

When the customary introductions and presentations are over, the glass balls are brought to the front of the steps. I take a few deep breaths, steadying myself. This is it.

"As is customary," Clio says over the microphone, her voice high-pitched and smokey, "let's start with the girls."

Her hand dips inside, hovering, contemplating which paper to draw. _It doesn't matter_, I think, my heart racing, _I will be a tribute_.

Clio finally makes a choice, holding the paper between her manicured nails. She pauses, looking out at the crowd, a show woman if ever there was one.

"Annetta Heron." she says, in almost a whisper.

There is a squeal from the fourteen year olds, though whether it is a happy one or not, I can not tell. Moving out of my row, I walk into the isle that leads up to the steps. Slowly, I bring my head upwards to look directly at the Escort.

"I volunteer as tribute." I say, clearly and slowly, no over confidence or emotion.

Then, I make my way up the steps. I manage to suppress a smile, but I can not deny I'm happy with the way that played out.

"Your name?" Clio inquires.

"Fynn Castairs." I say, my voice echoing through the speakers strategically placed around the square.

And then I wait. If anyone else wants to volunteer, then this is their chance. I look out, my eyes scanning the girls. One meets my eyes and I raise an eyebrow, daring her to challenge, asking her to try. She looks away and I feel confident. I am here and no one can take that away from me.

"And who will join Miss Castairs?" Clio continues, dipping into the boys' names.

She unfolds the paper and once again pauses for effect.

"Roscoe Jones" is the name that rings out. Heads turn to look at a boy with short, black hair. He puts on a brave face, but I can see the shock rippling beneath the surface. But he needn't worry, because Kalin soon volunteers to take his place. Except, he doesn't. Kalin just stands there, saying nothing. The Roscoe boy starts to make his way up to the stage and still there is silence. People shift uncomfortably and I find myself clenching my hands together, knuckles going white. Kalin is the premier. No one else can volunteer until he does. I wait and I wait, wanting to scream at him to hurry up. He hangs his head, blonde hair covering his face and that's when I realize; he's not going to do it. My mouth is slightly open, my entire body frozen. How can he do this? It is an honour that some people only dream of and he has let everyone down. Clio takes my hand and that of the boy tribute, lifting them up to the sky. She speaks but I don't listen, trying to comprehend what is going on. As I am whisked away into the Justice Building, I shake my head and focus. I am the tribute and that is all that matters right now.


	4. Chapter 4: Tokens from my District

Chapter 4: Tokens from my District

I am taken to a room somewhere within the Justice Building, where I am left on my own to await the people who farewell me. The walls are painted in a dull blue-green and there is a table with two chairs around it. Apart from that, the room is bare. I take a seat and look around, as if I might be able to find something to interest me. My fingers drum against the dark wood surface and I can't believe that I feel nervous. Not for the Games, I am still buzzing about that. But I'm wondering who will come to see me off. My mother, I assume, will do her duty, playing the part of loving, proud parent to the extreme for the cameras. Who else? Will my Gran take the journey to support me in something she is so strongly against? I hope so; at this moment I don't think there is anyone I would rather see. I'm not really sure about others. There are people who I don't dislike at the academy, but I wouldn't really call them friends, not the kind that visit a tribute anyway.

The first person to walk through the door is my mother. Tottering on black stilettos, she beams and rushes to my side, giving me a quick squeeze.

"Well done, Darling." she says. "That entrance was just impeccable. You should have seen your eyes on the camera. They were stunning!"

She paces the room, commenting on how I looked from all the different angles. Then she moves on to the acoustics of the square and how I could have been louder.

"I don't mean changing your pitch or anything," she says, hands gesturing wildly as she does so, "just bringing the volume up so it would have made more of an impact."

She sits down and takes out a note pad, flicking through the pages to see if there is anything she's missed.

"Oh yes," she says, slamming the pad shut, "your angle. Strong, silent, calm and collected. I liked it, stay with that."

"Alright." I say testily. "You're my mother, not my publicist."

I've just realized how impersonal the things she's saying really are. She is my mother and I am her daughter, her only child. Shouldn't she be telling me how much she loves me, not how I should run my campaign? Cynthia leans back in her chair, her eyes narrowed, not quite knowing what to make of me. We haven't spent enough time in each others company for me to challenge her, so this is new territory for both of us.

"You're funny." she says. "People will like that so use it."

Her words brush off the incident, but her tone is cold and mirthless. I look in her eyes and they tell me never to do that again.

"Yes, ma'am." I respond quietly.

She folds her arms and continues to stare, as if I am some foreign creature who might do something interesting. Then she reaches into her pocket and pulls out something: a watch. It is a faded silver colour, with a thick wrist strap and wide face. There is a crack in the glass, a shard of it missing, and both hands lie limp and motionless.

"It was your father's. He wore it during his games." Cynthia says quietly, laying it lovely on the table. "I thought you could take with you. As your token."

She gets to her feet, seeming to struggle with the task of lifting her bodyweight. She once again comes to my side. She places both her hands on my cheeks and gives me a lingering kiss on my forehead. Is this like a blessing? Is this her saying she loves me? I watch her leave, an enigma in six inch heels, and I realise how little I actually know about her.

The door swings open and I stand up in surprise; it's Kalin. He sits down. I stare at him. He stares at me. And then I loose it.

"What the hell was that?" I yell, banging both my palms down on the table. "What the hell, Kalin?"

"I'm sorry." he says, his voice croaky like he's having trouble saying it.

"Sorry?" I say incredulously. "Sorry? What the hell were you thinking?"

"I think," he says defensively, "I suddenly realized how stupid it was to be volunteering to die."

"You made me look like a fool!" I shout. "Not only me, but the academy and the entire district! You were chosen and you let everyone down! Do you know how many people wanted this? _Do you?_"

"Do you know how many didn't want this?" he shouts back, standing up to face me. "I think you do, because you're not angry about looking stupid. The only reason you're pissed right now is because some guy who didn't sign up for this is having to fight for his life. Well, news flash, Fynn, no one signs up for this! That's the whole point! There are hundreds of kids, in all the districts, who didn't sign up for this. And they will still get massacred. They will still die! Only one can survive, Fynn. One out of twenty-four. Why would I volunteer for that?"

Everything starts to fall into place, all the pieces beginning to make sense; his face during pre-reaping, his mark in hunting. He's afraid.

"Get out." I whisper.

"Fynn-" he starts.

"Get out." I hiss.

"Fine." he says.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pin. It is the academy crest; I have one on my blazer back home.

"I thought you might want this as your token." he says angrily. "You know, to remind you why you're doing this."

He throws it down and it skids across the table, stopping just before the edge. Kalin then turns back towards the door.

"Happy Hunger Games." he says as he leaves. "And may the odds be ever in your favour."

When he's gone I sink back down into my chair. My head is spinning and my throat hurts from all the yelling. I'm massaging my temples when Gran comes in, the last of my visitors. She wears a long black coat and her blue eyes swim with pity. I can't bring myself to look at her and we don't speak for quite some time.

"You look like you've been attending a funeral." I comment, leaning my elbow on the table and my head in my hand.

"Maybe I have been." Gran says coldly.

I feel like a record on repeat, but I say it again.

"I'm going to win." I tell her. "I promise you."

She glares at me, giving me a look that I don't know and I don't like.

"I've been here, in a room like this, three times, Fynn." she says. "And the last boy who made me that promise didn't come back. So, excuse me, if I can't put all my hope in the words of a teenager."

She's talking about my uncle. Nicholas Castairs, the second brother to go in to the arena, the first one to die. I have never watched his games, but they say it was a good one. They say he died like a hero. But a dead hero has still lost.

"I am my father's daughter." I reply. "I will not fail."

"And your uncle did?" Gran says.

"He died." I say. "My father did not. I will not."

"Your father." Gran laughs bitterly. "There may come a time when you realize that you are less like him than you think."

I jump up, quick to defend him.

"You're always talking like that about him!" I yell. "Like he did something wrong. All he did was survive, what's so wrong about that? So your other son died! You had one that lived, that was a victor and you don't even appreciate him! Well I do and I am proud to carry his name."

"And when that time comes," Gran says slowly, continuing as if I had never interrupted, "you may see that it is not such a bad thing."

A tear rolls slowly down my cheek. Gran comes over and wraps her arms around me, stroking my hair. I breathe in her scent; cinnamon mixed with something else I can't quite put my finger on. Home. She smells like home.

"What aren't you telling me?" I whisper.

"If you come back," she replies, "I will tell you. But not now."

"Tell me." I say, pulling myself out of her embrace.

Her head is tilted slightly and she looks at me sadly. Her eyes flick down to the table.

"Take the watch with you." she says and then she walks out.


	5. Chapter 5: First Tastes

Chapter 5: First Tastes.

I am taken from the room in the Justice Building to a car. This car, I know, will take me to the train station where I will begin my journey to the Capitol. The Capitol. _The _Capitol. I keep running the words through my mind and thankfully they are enough to keep me from thinking about the strange conversation I have just had with my grandmother. The Capitol has always been a dream of mine. And, somehow, I've always thought that that was all it would ever be; a dream. I know it exists, but I won't truly believe it until I can see the skyline, the lights and everything else.

In the car, I get to study my fellow tribute. Roscoe Jones is shorter than I am, but muscular due to, I suspect, working in the quarries; he's not an academy kid at any rate. His black is hair is shaved slightly at the sides and pecks into a cowlick. His eyes are light grey and sharp. His shock from the reaping seems to have disappeared, his mouth permanently in a wry looking smile as he converses, quite easily, with Clio.

"I was in District 11 before I came here." she is saying. "It wasn't terribly exciting though, nothing like the reapings here."

"You can say that again." Roscoe sighs, before laughing at Clio's look of confusion.

I stay quiet, looking out the window. I wonder how much it will have changed when I return. The mountains will still be here, the buildings, the stone. But what about the people? How will my absence change them?

The car pulls up at the train station, a large building with light blue awnings stretching out from carved stone archways. A train, long and silver, waits for us at one of the platforms. It is huge, snaking out a long way, and I wonder if we are the only ones on board. The sleek exterior shines in the light and I can tell it is cleaner than anything in the district. Clio boards first, the massive machine dwarfing her further. Roscoe goes next and I am last. I climb up the steps and my face is hit with a cool gust of air and a light floral smell. I do not live badly; District 2 has been loyal to the Capitol and we have been rewarded accordingly. But I know that this train alone will make my existence look like the worst kind of poverty. And my theory is quickly confirmed.

The curved walls inside are many of the same shiny metal. Long wood tables, covered in a glossy varnish, stretch across the room, loaded with foods that I have never seen. The seats are large, deep red velvet on an ebony base. The curtains are the same colour and an air conditioner rustles them gently. The dulcet tones of a violin float quietly through speakers, providing the backing track. It is beautiful. I am struck speechless as I desperately try to remember it all, to make sure I will never forget it.

Two people are already sitting in the chairs. One is Flick Donavan. It is not cold and yet he still wears a thick scarf and coat. He leans back in the seat, not looking remotely interested. Next to him is a woman, with milky brown skin and dark cornrow braids. Her expression is that of alertness and she rises as we approach.

"These are your mentors." Clio says excitedly. "Flick Donavan and Sheena Ellen."

Sheena holds out a hand and gives me a warm smile. As we shake, I can feel the power in her grip. Strength would definitely have been one of her assets when she was in the arena. She reaches over to take Roscoes hand and then sits down again. Flick gives both of us a nod. They'll already know our names, so they don't bother to ask. I'm preparing to take one of the opposite chairs, when Clio whisks us off again.

"I'm sure you'll want to freshen up after the long day." she trills brightly. "Come along, I'll take you to your rooms. You can discuss tactics and whatnot at dinner."

A door at the end of the carriage slides open and we are led down a long corridor. Roscoe's room is through the second door, mine through the fourth. Clio's, she informs us, is the third, between the both of ours, in case we should need anything. She is extremely eager to help out in anyway that she can. Her unfaltering cheeriness would be cute if it wasn't so unnerving; one can't help but wonder what she is really thinking beneath that tangerine exterior. With the arrival of dinner scheduled for 7.30, I am left to my own devices until then.

My room on the train is a little bigger than the room I have at home. A closet stands at one end, a television at the other. Two sofas are arranged in cosy 'V' formation. There is a double bed in the middle of the room. I walk over to it and flop down, running my fingers over the satin duvet, staring at the ceiling. It is the first time I have been alone since the reaping and until now I haven't realized how tired I actually am. Kicking my shoes off, I curl up on the bed and close my eyes. The day's events playback to me, mixing together until they are foggy and unclear, hypnotizing me into sleep. I gladly accept their offer, my mind shutting off and my subconscious taking over.

I wake to find the clock telling me that I have over slept. In what can only be described as adrenaline fueled panic, I straighten my dress and attempt to fix my hair; the braid has completely deteriorated, so I pull it back in a ponytail and hope it will do. I run into the hallway, still trying to pull on a shoe, and make my way to the dining car. Everyone is seated when I come in. I take a seat next to Roscoe, just as some waiters appear from the other end of the train. They lay out dish after dish of impeccable looking food, the smells mixing together in a confused symphony. I help myself to a bit of everything; I have never been starving in District 2, but my meals can not compare to this. The vegetables, all brightly coloured, are cooked perfectly, the meat (beef, but I'm not certain) is tender and drizzled with a sweet sauce and there is some of the fluffiest rice I have ever seen. Clio serves herself like she has been doing it all her life, which she probably has. Sheena and Roscoe only eat a little and Flick doesn't eat at all, just leaning back in the nonchalant way he always does. I take a slice of bread, mopping up all the sauce, not wanting to leave any on my plate.

"So, strengths, interests?" Sheena says, as the dinner plates are taken away. "Tell me about yourselves."

"My name is Roscoe Jones," Roscoe replies causally, "and I like cats, talking about feelings and long walks on the beach."

Despite myself, I let out a little giggle. Flick smirks and I can tell he likes Roscoe. Sheena is less impressed, giving him a disapproving frown. Clio just tilts her head in a concerned manner.

"I think she meant in terms of what you can bring to the Games." she explains sweetly, clearly missing the joke.

"Oh, did she?" Roscoe grins, feigning graciousness. "Thanks, Clio, I didn't quite catch that."

Looking at Clio's expression, I let out another laugh, disguising it as a cough into my napkin.

"So, what can you do?" Sheena asks Roscoe seriously.

"I'm pretty strong." Roscoe shrugs.

"That all?" Sheena says coldly.

"I can use a knife." Roscoe says, matching her coldness but mixing it with civility.

"Gees, Sheena." Flick mumbles, the first words he's said all night. "Give the boy a break. It's dinner; can't his monkey dance wait for the Capitol?"

He says Capitol like it burns his tongue. Sheena considers his words for a second before nodding.

"And what can you do, Fynn Castairs?" she says.

"First in Hunting, Hand to Hand Combat, Weaponry, Fitness and Problem Solving." I rattle off the résumé I've taken care to learn. "And second in Knot Tying."

"Now that's what we like to hear." Sheena smiles.

Then desert is served and all talk of the upcoming contest is dropped.


	6. Chapter 6: The Late Night Show with Clio

**Author's Note: **Sorry it has taken me so long to update!

Chapter 6: The Late Night Show with Clio

My first night on the train is a lonely one. The bed is so much bigger than the one I have at home and, as I stretch out, I feel like I might get lost in the expanse of satin and cotton. The silence seems so much louder within these four walls and when I do hear a sound it is the unfamiliar click of Clio's shoes on the floor. She walks back and forth, occasionally pausing, perhaps to listen to the stillness like I am. Then she continues to walk and the sound fades out.

I sit up and push the duvet down, swinging my legs around to dangle off the side of the bed. I should go to sleep, I'll need the rest, but I can't. I look around the room, wondering what I could do to pass the time until the morning. The T.V. catches my eye and I decide to do that.

I flop down in the couch and pick up the remote. The screen flicks on, bathing the room in a harsh light. The only thing available to watch are past Hunger Games, so I scroll through them, hoping to get some tips from previous victors. As I watch each one, their expressions are the things that strike me. Some cry, some are proud, some even laugh, but there is one thing that links them together; relief. It flashes through their eyes before another emotion takes over. And it surprises me. Even those with backgrounds like mine seem happy. They are less proud than I thought they would be, just thrilled that it has ended. Suddenly it occurs to me; I wonder how my father looked. My heart beating in my chest, I look through and find the 53rd Annual Hunger Games. There are tribute profiles, edited clips of the highlights from different contestants. Some of them are very short, clearly showing the first ones to die; they do not interest me. I find "Alexander Castairs" and press play.

A boy, tan and tall, with dark brown hair cut neatly so it stays off his face appears before me. His eyes, electric blue, a bit like mine, stare out into space, his expression serious. I watch him as he volunteers, solemnly raising his hand. His first day in the arena, he kills a boy but avoids the blood bath, running off into the hills. I see him hunt and build, moving over the terrain with the agility of a cat. He is someone that I don't know; a face I haven't seen, a laugh I haven't heard, a hand that I don't remember holding. I try to imagine my face in his, but I can't; apart from the eyes, we are not similar to look at. But we are alike, I tell myself. He wears the watch that I now wear; that will connect us, if nothing else.

I see him sitting next to a camp fire; it must be extremely cold, because I have learnt that you never build a fire if you can help it. His knees are tucked up, his arms wrapped around them. His head is resting on them and he looks sad, his eyes watching the twisting flames with a wistful sort of longing, as if he wants to join in their playful dance, but can't find the energy. It dawns on me that he was only seventeen at this time. A child. Only seventeen. What am I saying? I am seventeen, not _only _seventeen, just seventeen. And not a child.

A rustle comes from somewhere behind the boy. He spins around, but is not fast enough; a large boy, who looks far older than eighteen, has jumped on him and pins him to the ground. I see my father look around. He throws his arm on to the fire, holds it for a second and then brings it up with a great force, hitting the other boy in the face. The metal from the watch has heated up in the flames, leaving a mark on the boy's cheek. He lets out a scream and brings his hands to his face. My father takes this opportunity, grabbing his knife and slitting the boy's throat. Then he grabs a small canister that holds water and empties the entire contents on to his wrist. It took some quick thinking to do what he just did. I wonder if I had been in that situation, would I have done the same thing?

I hear the click of shoes in the corridor again. This time they stop before my door and it slides open, Clio's shadowy figure standing in the moonlight. She hasn't changed out of her clothes yet. Her hands are on her hips and she tut-tuts, sounding remotely like a chicken.

"You should be sleeping, you know." she says. "You'll be needing your energy tomorrow. I believe Sheena is planning to spend the entire day talking strategy. I can't say I know much about it, but I think she's expecting you to be awake!"

She gives a little laugh, half-heartedly, and sits down on the chair next to the couch. The large, plushy seat further highlights how tiny she really is.

"What are you watching?" she asks.

I hesitate. This was a private moment, something I didn't want to share. But Clio has been nothing but nice so far and it would be extremely rude to shut her out.

"My father's Games." I mutter, pulling my knees up to my chest.

Clio's eyes lift up to the screen, watching as the boy battles with the last competitor.

"I remember him." she says slowly. "He was just a few years younger than I was. He won, didn't he?"

In my district, everyone has heard of my father. In fact, all the tributes are hailed as heros. It surprises me to think that those from the Capitol do not remember them.

"Yes." I reply. "He did."

"I remember his brother better." Clio continues. "But, I suppose, a chivalrous death like that isn't something you forget."

"I haven't heard about it." I say truthfully. "We don't really discuss it much at home."

"Oh, it was tragic!" Clio says, her eyes misting over at the thought. "He took a spear to the chest for a girl he had allied with. Pretty young thing from 7. No, maybe 5. Well, they're all very similar."

I process this. I have never been particularly proud of my uncle. By all accounts, he was a good man, but I had no time for those who didn't win. But this news gives me a little more respect for him; at least he didn't die of starvation or something like that.

"What happened to her?" I ask.

"Hm?" Clio says, having gone off track, somehow getting on the topic of her dog back in the Capitol.

"The girl from 5 or 7. What happened to her?"

"She won, I think." Clio replies after a moment of thought. "A bit of a wild card."

She glances at the clock on the wall.

"Goodness gracious! Sheena will absolutely have my head if you don't get up on time! Off to bed you go."

She shepherds me back to my bed. I listen as the door closes. A few seconds later, I hear the click of heels going back down the hall.


End file.
